


New Leases (Noncanon Pronouns)

by detrevniwrit



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Non-canon pronouns for Drift, Other, hence the 'other' categorization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detrevniwrit/pseuds/detrevniwrit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A history of misplaced faith and renewed licenses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. eviction

**Author's Note:**

> Drift is referred to with 'they' pronouns, Ratchet with 'he'.

Drift hadn’t thought he would ever be this gentle to them again, and they were wrong.

Ratchet’s hands slide off Drift’s shoulders to hover over the sides of their finials, cupped like he wants to touch. Unsure, careful, ever so careful.  
His consideration for Drift burns unexpectedly, cauterizes an old wound. Drift resists the urge to grab Ratchet’s hands as they lift away from their face, taking the burning away. 

They clear their throat instead. “See you around Ratchet,” they offer awkwardly, barely audible over the outraged shouting.

From under the shadow of his helm Ratchet's optics flicker towards theirs, steadies into a decided gaze.  
“Til next time, Drift.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“One glance at her, even now in the glass of my mind, and I want to take off and travel with her.”_  
>  ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
> 
>  _“Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.”_  
>  ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves


	2. debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post EOS. I was wondering what kind of conversation Drift and Ratchet might have on the way back to their ship, if any, and I figured it'd be something like this.

"You know," Drift groans, stretching to pop pebbles out of their armor, "for someone who lectured _me_  for being reckless, you sure have a knack for stupid heroics yourself."

“Yeah well, fools tend to congregate," Ratchet grunts. He hauls his aft over the last boulder and huffs, reaching up to clutch at a shoulder. Unfortunately, not discreetly enough to escape Drift's attention.

They pause to look him over a moment too long, fingers curling awkwardly at their side. In his exhaustion, it takes Ratchet more than an astrosecond to register it as concern. “Stop looking at me like that. I'm fine.”

“I’m not the one who’s cuddling his shoulder,” Drift retorts, rubbing at their hip.

"It’s nothing that can’t keep," he growls. He shakes a finger at them. "Between the two of us I'm going to say _you're_ the one who's more of a wreck here, so let’s just get back to the ship so I can repair you before you disassemble into a heaping pile of--”

“Hey!" they protest. "It’s not _that_ bad---scrap, okay, okay, it’s bad, but.” Drift falters, uncertain, grabbing Ratchet’s shoulder as he turns to leave.  
“I’ll live, alright? But there’s no sense in you being too run down to fix either of us by the time we get over the rest of these rocks. I can do minor patches, at least, and you can work me through the tougher details if we need to."

Ratchet makes as if to argue before thinking better of it. He exvents.

"Fine.” At Drift’s nodding, he achingly lowers himself back onto the rock. “The space between the collar fairing and right pauldron. Rub around the damaged wires and the nanites should take care of the rest."

He’s careful not to show his relief when Drift’s fingers skim over his pauldron, fingers working gingerly underneath Ratchet’s plating. Tough pebbles fall, wires shift back into alignment, fritzed ends smooth gently into place. They're good--Ratchet can’t help a small sound as his shoulder relaxes, flaring sensors subsiding into a low throbbing.

“Not bad, for an amateur.”

“Who said I was an amateur?” Drift tsks, craning their neck closer to better check the cables. “In order to purge the mind of impurities, one must first learn to channel the soothing energies of Primus--”

“Now you're just being obnoxious.”

They chuckle. “Too obvious?”

“As if you're ever subtle with that--a little to the left--nonsense.”

Drift hums. At some point Ratchet distantly registers Drift settling next to him with a soft grunt, work finished. He makes a sound of thanks. The urgency to get up and haul pede dies for a moment in lieu of comfortable silence. 

Vast valleys and hills of crenulated rock stretch into the horizon, exposed by fuschia rays and backlit by shifting mauve shadows. Still and lifeless as an old battlefield, stars emerging like pockmarks over a dusty expanse. 

Drift: not a patch of red or white paint left unscratched, looking in every way like a mech who’d scraped themselves out of the rock they were sitting on (which, in a way, they had). What a picture they make, Ratchet thinks ironically, two trashed up mechs on a barren alien planet.

“It’s beautiful, in its own way.”

“What?” Ratchet’s optics refocus, skimming over the horizon. "Yes yes, it's nice enough a hunk of rock," he mutters. 

“Just a hunk of rock to us, maybe. To those lifeforms Turmoil and I killed, maybe not.” Drift draws their good knee close to their chest, optics heavy in the fading light. "Still, we--I couldn’t care less what this place was, or what those stone lifeforms thought. They were expendable, and we _expended_  them. You'd think--you'd think I'd have known how that felt, back in Dead End."

“You've changed,” Ratchet replies firmly. “That's not you anymore--if anything, it's the opposite." His servos unconsciously clench in his lap. "And they’re dead, Drift. Running yourself to bolts and pieces saving little organics may be...noble, in a completely reckless and foolhardy way. But it isn’t going to change what’s already happened.” 

"Right." The side of Drift's helm, heavily dented and smeared with dirt, successfully walls off their expression. Ratchet's lip plates curl down at the corners, fuel pump churning in consternation.

"Anyways,” Drift shoves themselves up. Discontent radiates in his direction, offset by a proffered servo. “We’d better get to the ship before the light dies out. Let’s keep moving.”

  
Ratchet wordlessly takes their grip and they both leave the light behind, like thunder rolling away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“...the finest act of seeing is necessarily always the act of not seeing something else.”_  
>  ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
> 
> The next chapter will be a continuation of sorts to this one. Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated and help keep me writing.


	3. awaiting home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where to go from here.
> 
> As usual, they/them/theirs pronouns for Drift, he/him/his for Ratchet! Ratchet switches between using she/her/hers or he/him/his in reference to Rodimus because I write Rodimus as genderfluid.

The awkward tension between Ratchet and Drift lasts all the way back to the crash site. 

Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, they have their work cut out for them. The ship's interior is lit only by sparking wires and the few lights that had survived planetfall, the shadows of the brig and other chunks of debris looming haphazardly from the floor and hull. It’d be difficult to navigate throughout the ship, but Drift would have to head towards the controls to see if they can run a quick diagnostic scan on the state of everything else. 

Drift gingerly limps around the mess of dangling cords and broken ship to check on the (thankfully) still glowing controls. They manage to get their servos on the interface for all of four kliks before Ratchet is batting them away from the controls and onto an overturned crate. Drift’s brief irritation at the interruption fades as Ratchet’s hands whisk over their frame, with all the briskness and capability of a bot who'd done this thousands of times.

A sterile meshcloth rubs startlingly cool on Drift's overtaxed hip joint, stinging as Ratchet exposes the metal from layers of grime. The sensation is absurdly overwhelming---the sense of feeling better, of being taken care of after deca-cycles of ignoring damage. It pings Drift to the spark-deep weariness of their frame--and jars them out of the reality of it all at once. Drift turns their head towards the viewport as the ache blooms clean and bright across their sensor net, unable to look at Ratchet.

The cloth presses briefly against their joint, a grounding point of pressure, before easing back into its revolution around the rim. “So how long do you plan on doing this?” 

Drift barely hears him through their haze. The first of the planet’s two suns had set several hours before and the planet looms, as barren as ever, dim in the glow of the second sun. Drift's thoughts dissolve with the light, a veil of emptiness over Ratchet’s low, nonchalant tones.

“...This vigilante run, running around playing savior.” Ratchet pauses, pulling out a scalpel. “Or whatever you’re calling it.”

“Thought you wanted me to come back with you to the Lost Light,” Drift murmurs.

“ _Are_ you planning on returning to the Lost Light?” Ratchet shoots back. “It’s up to you. I just came here to pass on the message and check if your sorry aft had been offlined yet.” He eyes their dim optics, then pops open the joint cover and shines a light into the gap. “Guh, maybe I should’ve asked if you’d been planning to get a _wash_ first.” 

“...Shut up,” Drift grumbles, provoked out of their reverie. “I had more important things on my mind than solvent and wax. Like....actual lives.”

“But not your own functioning, apparently," Ratchet gripes, unamused. "The sheer amount of grit, grime, and slime--by the pit, I swear some of that is _glowing._ The buildup in your vents could’ve caused you to overheat and retain _severe_ damage if you’d left it off much longer." He picks up a laser scalpel, frowning. “Look--it’s a fine (if extremely _foolhardy_ ) ambition to risk life and limb all by yourself to help the squishies, especially now that I can provide the repairs that you so obviously need on hand. But you should know you’d be welcome back on the ship--and I mean that aside from the quest at hand.” 

Drift blocks his hand from their hip, prompting Ratchet to glance up at them. “I don’t want to go back where I’m not wanted,” they snarl.

Ratchet’s faceplates slacken, taken aback at their expression. Drift shakes their helm before he can interrupt, covering their face with an mortified scrub between their thumb and fingers. “Sorry. No, listen. If what you said was true--that I’ve been pardoned for some time--then you," they stop, vulnerable. "You were the only one who bothered to come looking for me. I doubt I have any other friends left on the Lost Light worth coming back to.”

“You’re upset Rodimus didn’t come after you herself,” Ratchet elaborates.

Drift gives him a helpless look.

Ratchet exvents and drops a hand on their knee. “I may not condone what Rodimus does or _what_ goes on in his head most of the time,” he begins, narrowing his optics. “But when I left I know she’d been struggling to make the right decision. Why that is, I don’t know--that’s between you and him--but I could tell she wanted you back on that ship with her and everyone else. You belong there as much as anyone.”

Ratchet nudges Drift’s hand out of the way. “But again. It’s up to you what you want to do.” He pointedly ignores Drift’s dumbfounded look as he goes back to separating out the gunk from their components.

After a moment, Drift finally, quietly replies. 

“...I’m not ready to go back yet. I’m still figuring it out.” 

Ratchet grunts in acknowledgment. He feels the weight of their gaze on his servos, the pensiveness of an unsatisfactory answer--and a multitude of unasked questions--resting heavily on them. 

_Does she really care? Do I really belong? Why do you care so much?_

_Out of everyone on that ship, why you?_

Why _you_?

Drift doesn’t realize they’ve asked the last question aloud until Ratchet suddenly snaps the cover closed, a little more forcefully than he’d intended.

“Because you’re _stubborn_ and _frustrating_ ,” he growls, ignoring their pained yelp. They blink in astonishment as he flicks his scalpel into its box, heaving to his pedes. “Whatever, figure it out. I’m going to need some more equipment from the crates I saw in the supply bay to do the rest of the major repairs. You had _better_ not move until I come back with them." 

Drift lurches up to grab his arm, pain dissolving into amusement. “Wait, I sense a ‘but’ here. I can see it in our optics--your aura is emanating positive vibes in my direction.” 

“Shut up,” he replies automatically. “I barely tolerate you _or_ your flakey spiritual nonsense.” 

A warm curve turns at the corner of Drift’s mouth, not quite a smile. Ratchet uncomfortably shrugs them back onto the crate and marches off down the hall towards the supply bay, pedes clanging furiously into the distance. 

Just as Drift’s smile fades, thinking he's left, a mutter drifts back from the dark--

“You deserved better,” a promise of return, echoing in the ensuing silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Myth makes Echo the subject of longing and desire. Physics makes Echo the subject of distance and design. Where emotion and reason are concerned both claims are accurate. And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only science.”_  
>  ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
> 
>  _“And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.”_  
>  ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves
> 
> It's been a while, but I've got a good deal of writing done for the next chapter! Stay tuned, and again, reviews would be much appreciated.


	4. second (third, fourth) thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doubts don't leave, but neither does Ratchet.

“Drift. Go recharge.”

Drift makes a noncommittal noise at the tracking screen, Ratchet lurking on the edge of their periphery. “Can’t. You go ahead, I’ll replace you in a bit.”

Drift can almost feel Ratchet gearing up to argue, an anticipatory tension in their struts. To their surprise, he just drops his aft into the co-pilot seat, venting for patience. “You’ve been up for hours. What’s got your processor in overload _now_?”

“You,” Drift answers, going silent after. Staying up has always made them more honest. Pit--Ratchet always made them more honest, and Drift knew better that Ratchet would pry it out of them sooner or later. 

It wasn't as if he hadn't, already.

Ratchet still has to prompt, though, to get them to elaborate. “What about me?” He grumbles. “If you're still thinking of kicking me off this ship, I'm letting you know first that my foot kicking your aft is a hell lot more likely at this point.”

Drift snorts, but Ratchet reads their hesitation. “Seriously? Still?”

“I’m not--thinking about kicking you off the ship, you stubborn old geezer,” Drift replies. Ratchet crosses his arms instead of taking the bait, waiting. Drift’s hands flex on the system controls, tighten and release. “I know I said and you said already, but I’m just. It’s stupid.”

“Knowing you, it probably is,” Ratchet says, not unkindly. “But I won't know if you don't tell me.”

Tighten, and release. “I’m having a hard time believing why you're still here,” Drift relents.

They can feel Ratchet’s optics tracking them from the side. When he answers, there's a complicated note in his signifiers that Drift’s not sure how to identify. “You’re right. That _is_ stupid.”

“Shut up,” Drift grumbles on instinct. “You’re stupid.”

“Apparently, if we’re still having this conversation. Do I have to keep reminding you that I’m entirely entitled to help a friend if I want to, even if said friend’s processor is fried from recharge to awakening?” Ratchet asks. He sounds entirely too serious, even through the blatant sarcasm.

“No. Yes. Friend?” Drift stumbles.

Ratchet reaches over, detaches Drift’s hands from the controls with a deft flick, and abruptly shoves them by the pauldron. There's enough force behind the shove to sway Drift to the side, though not, as they half-expected, to upend them over their seat. “Yes. Now go recharge.” 

Drift notes the shortness as Ratchet being embarrassed, sheepishly rubbing the back of their neck. “Ok. Ok then. Let me know when it’s my turn to navigate.”

Ratchet waves them off with an impatient hand, shifting over to the captain’s seat with all the importance of having done so several times before, assisting different mechen more important than Drift. “Took you long enough.”

An irresistible warmth flushes through Drift’s energon lines as they watch the side of Ratchet’s helm, the cool and focused face of a doctor as he checks on the coordinates for their next stop. They give in to an impulse to press their chevron to the crosses on the side of his face, and are out the door and gone before he can stop spluttering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a long time since I last updated. I have a good portion of another chapter written, but I was so stuck on how to finish it and school and life and brains just compounded how hard it is to write. That said, I hope to continue this fic! I had and still have a few things I want to write, so I imagine it won't end here quite yet. Thanks so much for the kudos and following this fic so far!


End file.
